Short Stories
by WolverineKILLS
Summary: The war is over, and Sansa is wed to Sandor Clegane. In motherhood, she has become a storyteller, and she shares various adventures and tales from her and the Hound's story with their children. But things aren't as perfect and easy as they sound.
1. Prologue

**Note**: This is going to be a collection of random one-shot stories taking place between the two other fanfictions I've written. You can probably still enjoy it on its own, but I think it'll definitely mean more to you if you've read those other ones! The prologue's just to get the ball rolling... the rest will take place a few years from this chapter, and they will be about Sansa telling her and the Hound's story to her children, filling in a few gaps here and there. Something noncommittal for me to play around with from time-to-time, whenever I feel like taking a break from my own fiction writing. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Most characters belong to GRRM, not me.

* * *

It was nothing like the ceremony she had once dreamed herself of having. As Sandor Clegane's large cloak went around her shoulders, Sansa briefly tried to remember the wedding she had imagined so very long ago. Try as she would, the memory was gone, the same as almost everything else she had once known. Her past had become a story; there was only the future now.

What was soon to become House Clegane had neither its colours nor its sigil yet decided, and so the cloak Sandor draped around her was Stark grey. When Sansa had initially suggested yellow and black to him, he'd dissented almost as harshly as he had quickly; unlike her, his past was something he was only too willing to forget.

Resembling more a blanket than it did a cloak, the grey garment was too long, and it weighed heavy on her shoulders. As the Hound fumbled to pin it upon her, its soft wool combed the cold snowy ground beneath them. Sansa was quite glad for its warmth; the wind was whistling winter's song, a long and lonely ballad which not even fire could melt. All around them the trees shuddered as the union was completed. Now Lady Sansa Clegane, she glanced up at her knight, her new husband. His burned mouth twitching softly, he looked terribly uncomfortable standing there in the freezing cold.

The king, her brother Rickon, legitimised Sandor Snow the very moment the wedding ceremony was over. After that, the modest party gratefully left the cold of the godswood for Winterfell's Great Hall. Sansa took her son's hand in her own and gave it a secret, reassuring squeeze. Sandor Clegane, Second of His Name, was a shy boy, one still very afraid of his father, a man he did not yet know.

There were few guests in attendance at the wedding feast. The marriage had been agreed upon only but a week past, and the mounting snows outside made travel to the northern stronghold impossible. Sansa didn't mind at all. She knew what all the lords and ladies would have to say about the union, just as she knew what they already said of her son.

Sandor now sat to her right, contentedly playing with his favourite plaything, a small wooden practise sword meant for hands as little as his, quite unaware of his new place in the world. While in the eyes of the gods and the king he was no longer a bastard, Sansa nervously wondered how the rest of the realm would receive him in time. She dreaded the answer.

The other Sandor Clegane was seated to her left, eating his meal in silence. Ever since arriving in Winterfell less than a fortnight ago, he had been very quiet, though not in the angry, brooding way she had once known too well of him. It had taken a few days for her to understand the reason for his reticence, and when finally she did, she had smiled, if only slightly: two Sandors, and each one was deeply afraid of the other.

Once the small feast was finished, the music in the Great Hall turned from sombre to lively almost immediately. The modest gathering of guests waited patiently for the Hound to lead his new wife in a dance, but Sansa graciously waived the custom, for lameness now plagued Sandor Clegane's left leg; not only was he unable to dance, but he would never again be the swordsman he once was.

Yet he was still feared; not one male, save for her brother Rickon, asked Sansa for a dance. When she bid Harwin to lead her in a song, he agreed, albeit reluctantly, and not first without casting a careful glance towards the dais. But the Hound wasn't watching them; instead he was frowning at the younger Sandor, who was busy twirling his playsword in graceless, childlike fashion. As the guard's arm slipped around Sansa's back, she held her breath in hopes that father and son would finally have their first unforced exchange of words.

They didn't. Sandor continued playing with his sword, and the Hound's cagey interest in the boy soon waned. His eyes found Sansa's, and they did not stray again from her face. She smiled slightly, and then when the dance was over, she took up her place at his side.

"You're not enjoying yourself," she said, disappointed but not surprised.

"That'll change come the bedding," he said. Resting his large hand upon her thigh, he glanced her way, his mouth twitching. "How much longer need we sit here?"

Before she could answer, a thin piece of wood suddenly crashed down between them, landing upon his arm. The Hound angrily cursed and jerked his hand from her leg. Little Sandor made to slash at him again, but his father effortlessly caught the playsword and snatched it away from the boy. "_Enough_," he hissed.

Sansa grabbed her son's hand. "Sandor! That was unkind. You apologise."

Tears welled in the child's eyes, and for a moment so did an uncharacteristic look of stubborn anger. He stared at the elder Clegane's burned face, and for the first time he seemed unperturbed by the horrible mess of scars that were there.

"Sandor," Sansa repeated firmly, "apologise."

But the boy did not. Instead he spun away from them both and took comfort in the arms of his nanny, who had been watching the scene unfold from her seat beside the dais. Sansa tiredly motioned for him to be taken away, and then let out a tired sigh as she watched them go.

"Bloody hell," the Hound rasped. "The boy's brave, I'll give him that."

"He's impossible," she countered. "And he has been ever since… since..."

"Aye, since I arrived."

Sansa bit her lip, an old habit she'd never been able to break during moments of unrest. "He will adjust," she said. "Never before has he had to share me with anyone else."

The Hound's mouth twitched again, but he said nothing.

They remained at the feast for a handful of songs more, until at last Sandor Clegane stood up. Sansa stood by his side and said a few gracious words of gratitude to their guests, and then they left the Great Hall together. There had been no attempt made at carrying out the bedding ceremony.

Sansa led the way to the rooms they would share until they left Winterfell for good. They climbed the tower stairs at a slow pace, for Sandor's leg bothered him on such cold days, and his limp was heavy. When at last they were alone, he kissed her so unhurriedly that she was briefly reminded of their time together many years ago now, when her maidenhead was still intact and he'd contented himself night after night with only her lips. Every touch sent a shiver of memories through her, some pleasant, and some not. When Sandor's torso was bared, Sansa could not help remembering the awful day Beric Dondarrion's flaming sword had made a ruin of his arm, all the way up to his neck; and then, as his lips gently twitched upon her own, her mind wandered to a far more pleasant day, the morning he had first kissed her cheeks to rouse her from sleep.

She held him very close, this one single piece of her past that would also be part of her future. He sighed when his warm seed spilled into her, and Sansa knew immediately that a second child had been planted. She closed her eyes and hoped it would be a brother for little Sandor.


	2. On Love and Chivalry

"...and thus was the Hound's bravery rewarded. He won the tourney and took home both the purse of gold and the favour of the commons." Sansa smiled slightly to herself. _I knew he would win._

Beside her Sandor did not react. Naturally it was a tale he'd heard many times in the past, but never before had it left him looking so dissatisfied. Lately he was often quite glum after one of her stories. "What is it?" she asked.

In the light of day his grey eyes glistened as sharp as steel. He hesitated before he spoke, his solemn face wearing a contemplative frown. "Why is the Hound always such a hero in your stories?"

Sansa flinched at the question. "Why? Because he was a hero."

"Aye," he said, nodding doubtfully. "But the Hound is _Father_, and Father is…"

"A hero."

He momentarily sneered, but instead of responding he only looked down to his feet in stubborn silence.

It was very late in winter and up above the sky was a crisp, unbroken span of soft blue. Everywhere dense layers of snow were melting away, bringing forth the promise of spring, drop after drop. A sharp wind gusted then, and the long limbs of the willow beneath which they stood groaned in response, slowly waking up from years of frozen slumber. _Soon enough the buds will be showing, _Sansa thought, for a moment caught in a dream of spring.

"Sandor," she said, "why did you ask me that? The stories I tell you are all true."

"But the Hound is always so gallant in them," he protested angrily. "He's always so _good_."

"Gallant? Good? Is he truly?"

"Aye," said Sandor, glaring out at the never ending sprawl of thawing landscape. "Saving the flower knight like he did? And then the rescue from King's Landing! It's all too chivalrous to have been him." He paused, hesitating once more. When he spoke again, it was in almost a whisper. "And the little bird's too dumb to have been you."

In spite of the remark's bluntness, Sansa could not help a smile. "I was very young," she reminded him.

"Older than me," he said.

Her smile did not waiver. "Yes, older than you. But you, my little knight, are _very_ smart." She watched the way he frowned at that, a reaction so obdurately like his father. She sighed. "I never said the Hound was chivalrous, Sandor. Is that truly how you imagine the rescue to have gone, chivalrously, even after all I've told you?"

He continued to frown while he thought about it. "I do," he resigned at last. "It's how you always make it seem."

She laughed softly. "And how ever did I manage that?"

"The way he helped you onto his horse?" he said, uncertain now.

"There was nothing chivalrous about it," Sansa assured him, and then grabbed at his sides, squeezing him tight and eliciting a squeal of delight as she did so. "Is _that _chivalrous?"

When he settled down again, the brief joy on his face quickly faded, and his expression returned to its former solemnity. He could not look her in the eye. "No," he eventually said, very softly, "it isn't." Stringy, dark hairs danced across his forehead, and he frowned at whatever thoughts were floating inside his mind.

"I do believe," she said, glancing up to the blue sky, where not a single cloud lived, "that your father was as chivalrous as he knew how to be, which, I will admit, was not very."

"Yet you still fell in love," said Sandor, sounding much older than his years then. "Why?"

Sansa sighed again. There had been fleeting moments in the past where she too had wondered this, although she had never asked herself _why, _only _how._ She looked back to her son and studied his face. _He is growing far too quickly, _she thought sadly, _but he is still a child. _"Love can happen for many reasons," she said carefully. "Perhaps one day you will better understand, when you're older."

This response seemed to dissatisfy him almost as much as her story had, but he did not persist. He was now staring down the hill, back towards the castle where the small training yard was. The clanging of steel echoed loudly as guards practised there. Amongst them stood Lord Sandor Clegane, a crippled man too proud to retire his sword. Beside him was their secondborn, Brandon, gripping his playsword as he watched the duelling guards.

"Mother," said Sandor then, "why doesn't he like me?"

"Oh," she breathed. Suddenly it was as though she were back in King's Landing, where the Kingsguard had just kicked all the air from her lungs. "That is _not _true. You mustn't think such things."

"It _is _true," he said angrily. "He put me up against Thom Redtry this morning. And I lost. Again."

"Thom Redtry?" she said. "What's so wrong with that?"

"Thom Redtry, Mother? He's Raymun's son, the stableboy."

"I know Thom and Raymun both. That doesn't answer my question."

Sandor looked at her with a furrowed brow. "The son of a _stableboy_," he said, his tone softened by something so very close to shame. "Again and again Father makes us duel, and for what? I can't beat him, and everyone laughs at me for it. What is he even doing in the yard, when he should be shovelling away the horses' mess?"

At that Sansa grabbed his arm and spun him around so that he was facing her. "You will _never_ say such a thing again," she said.

All of the anger had left his face at the sharpness of her reply. "But it's the truth," he said meekly.

"Need I remind you of your great-grandfather, who was kennelmaster for the Lannisters? You mustn't ever forget your past, Sandor. Thom is a boy with talent, your father says, and he will not see such skill go to waste in the stables." There had been a time, so long ago now, when Sansa would have agreed fully with her son on the matter, but no longer was that so. "You should be proud of your father for what he is doing. There are not many men in this world who would grant a boy like Thom such a kindness."

"What about kindness to _me_?"

Sansa gazed back down the hill, towards the yard where Sandor Clegane was leaned against a post with his arms crossed, focused on his guards. Beside him Brandon stood, a boy still young enough to idolise both his father and her stories. She watched them, but the two spoke not a word to each other.

"Sandor," she eventually said, "do you remember when we first came here from Winterfell?" The boy took a moment to think about it, and then shook his head. "When we arrived, it was such a grim place. Winter had taken its toll on castle and people both. Some did not approve of your father as their new lord, but even more disapproved of his heir."

Sandor's eyes suddenly snapped to hers, widening with hurt. "Me?"

She nodded. "You. That surprises you, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he said, almost breathless with how much it did.

"The reason you're so surprised is your father's doing," she said. "Only once did he overhear someone's chiding remark, but he made quite sure it would be the last."

Sandor chewed his lip, pondering this. "What did he do?"

"Something not at all chivalrous," she said, pausing to stare back down the hill at the elder Clegane. At that moment her husband crouched down to the son at his side, pointing to the guards. Whatever it was he had said to the boy, Brandon nodded, listening. Sansa smiled slightly. "And I'd not have had it any other way."


	3. On Truth

As Sansa gazed into the hearth's dwindling fire, the words of her firstborn screamed like a winter's wind inside her ears. The tone of his voice is what unnerved her the most, one challenging not only her, but his father as well. _How did he grow up so suddenly? _she wondered. While not yet a man in body or age, his mind was a different animal, cunning and sharp. _And never before has he used it so daringly. _The brief glint of defiance in his eyes flashed in her memory like a spark, there for just one moment, lost in the next. Sansa nervously chewed her lip, wondering where her little boy had gone.

When the door to her chambers opened, she hardly looked up at the sound. Sandor Clegane stepped into the room, pausing briefly to bar them inside. It was his favourite time of the day, he'd told her once—that sweet moment when the rest of the world disappeared for another night, leaving the two of them alone and unbothered. Locked safely inside now, he took up the armchair beside her, slouching into it comfortably and grunting with satisfaction as he did so.

"Do you know what your son asked of me today?" she said to him.

"Which one?"

"Sandor," she said. He was the only son she mentioned to her husband these days. There had been a time when she'd once believed Brandon to be the most troubled of her boys. How wrong she had been.

"What now?" grumbled Sandor Clegane, somehow managing to sound both annoyed and indifferent at once.

"He wanted me to tell him the story of how you got your scars."

"Did you?" he asked, and then gave a shrug when she shook her head. "So what? Let him wonder."

"But it was _how _he said it. Like a challenge, as though he were daring me to spill your secret." She nervously chewed her lip. "When I said nothing, he accused me of being afraid of you."

"Oh?" That made the elder Clegane frown. "The boy grows bolder with each day. Well, if he truly wishes to know, tell him to come see me himself."

Sansa continued to chew her lip as she studied her husband's face, the handsome side which bore no scars. It had become a mask of misery over the years, one so tired from handling land claims and petty taxes. _And now this. _"Would you?" she asked. "If he came to you, would you tell him?"

Sandor chuckled darkly. "The boy's not yet grown that bold. He hasn't the courage to ask me."

"I think you may be wrong."

Her husband shrugged once more, but then after pause he turned to glance her way, finally meeting her gaze. A bit of the misery lifted from his grey, stony eyes then. "I saw you on the hill today," he said after a few moments. "With Sandor again. Was it then he asked you?"

She nodded. "He was angry about practise, I suppose."

"The boy hates to lose, yet it's all he knows."

"That is unkind to say," she said. "He thinks you are taunting him by making him duel Thom Redtry all the time."

The Hound laughed at that. "Is that what he told you? There's no one else near his size with whom he can practise. Shall I match him against Brandon and that little wood sword, then? Bloody hell, I'll send the boy to Winterfell, and he can squire for your brother if he's so unhappy here."

"You will _not_," said Sansa sharply. "I'll not see any of my children sent away." The last time her family had been divided for duty was the last time she had ever seen some of them alive. "Perhaps you could simply try being kinder to him in the yard." _And away from it as well, _she added, silently and to herself.

"Kinder?" said Sandor, his rasping voice thick with disbelief. "Gods, already the guards whisper about the time you two spend together, and now you would have me be _kinder_?" He scoffed dismissively. "Ah, a precious bond it is, that between a boy and his mother. And one best left a secret. What else is it you two always talk about up there, besides my scars?"

"I used to tell him stories," she said, ignoring the soft groan of disgust that rumbled in his chest at this admission. "_Our _story, Little Bird and the Hound. They were his favourites once, but he's long since outgrown them. Now we simply talk, as the Hound is no longer a hero to him."

Sandor stayed quiet at that. His mouth went hard and twitched.

"He's sensitive," she continued after a long silence. "He's not headstrong like Brandon is."

"No," agreed the Hound, "that he isn't."

"Why must you treat this as though it were a fault? He's so clever, and very kind, too. And he believes you aren't fond of him."

Sandor didn't even flinch at that. "Seven hells, and just what else does he think? If the boy spent half as much time in the yard as he does with you—"

"He would be as miserable as you are."

"He is my _heir_," rasped Sandor, angry now. "And as such his sword will one day be sworn to your brother, whether you bloody well like it or not. I'm trying to see that he's ready to do the king's bidding. Or would you rather see him dead?"

Sansa inhaled sharply and closed her eyes. "Of course not," she whispered. "And please, do not speak of such things."

"What _things_? I tell the truth."

She looked at him again, feeling herself growing angry as well now. "And so do I. The truth is that your son dislikes you, and his brothers will be sure to follow, once they see—"

Sandor suddenly stood up from his seat, the heavy wood of his chair's legs scraping loud against the hard stone floor. "Ah, piss on this," he growled, his eyes flashing with a ferocity she had not seen in many years. "Piss on all of it!"

While she momentarily crumpled at the anger in his voice, he continued, near to shouting now. "I didn't ask for any of this! Being a father, a lord? I hate it all. The boy wants a story, you say? I'll give him his bloody story!"

Before she could speak, he swung the heavy door open and left the room like a storm, his furious footsteps sounding like thunder in the shell of the tower. Sansa sat in the stunned silence of his wake. A part of her knew she should go after him, but she had not the energy to do so. For too long already she had been acting as a buffer between the two of them, and she was so tired of it. Father and son, they were alike in nothing else but appearance. She heard the furious bang of a door being shoved open somewhere, and she closed her eyes at the sound, sighing and telling herself this was something both of them needed.

A long time went by, and she continued to wait in the silence of her chambers. The fire in the hearth had long since turned to ashes, and the room had grown colder for it. In spite of it, she made no move to add more wood or to rekindle the flame. She simply sat, feeling so very tired, and she waited.

Sandor Clegane did not return that night.

Sansa suddenly woke up shivering, not having known she'd even fallen asleep. The soft grey of morning's first light trickled into the room through the window. She stood up from her armchair, wincing at the stiffness in her aching bones. A cold draft filled the room, and she rang for a servant to come tend to the hearth. In Winterfell the fires would never have been allowed to become ash, but here things were much different—Sandor Clegane hated servants coming into their rooms while they slept. He hated so many things.

After she cleaned herself up, Sansa left her rooms and descended the cold tower steps alone. She went to the boys' chambers first, checking to see if they were yet awake. Pushing open the door, she quietly peered inside. Brandon was gone, and so was Ned. She heard the faint echo of steel in the yard, and knew the two boys would be there. Their older brother, however, remained seated on his bed, staring down at his clasped hands. Sansa went to him.

"Leave me alone," he said.

"What's wrong?"

"As if you don't already know," he snapped, angry. He stood up, and it was then she realised just how tall he'd become. She had to raise her chin slightly to look him in the eyes. _When did he grow so high? _she wondered. _And_ w_here did the child go?_

"Your father came to see you last night," she said softly.

Sandor said nothing, but only stared over her shoulder, fighting to suppress the anger burning in his eyes. He was becoming handsome, she thought briefly, having inherited both the nose and the fine white skin of the Tullys. These traits, against his dark hair and stark cheekbones, were already striking. Girls would soon begin to swoon over him. Sansa had to fight the envy swirling within her belly.

"Did he tell you?" she asked when he did not answer her. "About his scars?"

Her son's steely gaze wavered for a moment, his mouth going taut with a grimace. "He did." He looked at her with eyes sharper than a Valyrian blade. "How could you, Mother? He didn't _want_ to tell me. He…" Sandor trailed off, letting his posture slump a little. "I didn't want to find out that way. _I _wanted to ask him for myself. And I would have, had you only given me the chance."

"Sandor… I'm sorry."

"Aye, you should be. And you should stop bloody treating me like I'm some stupid child!" With those harsh, angry words her son brushed by her and out the door. For the second time in too short a period, she was left standing alone in a room, feeling hollow and breathless inside.

This time, though, Sansa did not remain in one place for too long. She went to the window and looked down into the yard. Her husband wasn't there, as she had expected him to be. The younger Sandor, however, appeared after a short while, stopping to allow Ned to help him into his armour. Sansa watched them—boys learning how to become men, learning how to kill so as not to die.

Once his armour was set, Sandor patted his youngest brother on the shoulder and then went to where Thom Redtry stood. He said something to the stableboy's son, and Thom laughed. They both did. Sansa turned away.

She thought about breaking her fast, but felt far too sad to eat. Instead she went to her daughter's rooms, wondering if her youngest child was still asleep. Perhaps she would take the girl for a walk this morning; Leonor loved the outdoors, almost as much as she loved stories and songs. Sansa carefully pushed open the door, glad that at least her daughter was still sweet.

There on the feather bed far too large for Leonor alone, was her father as well, snoring softly next to the girl. Both were sound asleep. For a short while Sansa watched them, briefly recalling the many cold nights she had spent beneath the stars with Sandor Clegane asleep at her side. She had only been a few years older than Leonor was now, a thought as wondrous as it was disturbing.

Sansa went at last to sit on the edge of the bed. Leonor woke first, smiling when she saw her mother there. "Shh," she whispered, "you'll wake Father."

Sandor stirred. "Too late for that," he grumbled, slowly turning onto his back and stretching out, a tired bone or two crackling inside of him as he did so. His weary gaze carefully met Sansa's, and she recognised the apology in his eyes immediately. She gave him a small smile, and then gently squeezed his hand in hers.

"Father woke me last night to tell me a story," announced Leonor, happily unaware of the easing tension between her parents.

"Did he?" said Sansa, surprised.

Sandor was not impressed. "You weren't supposed to tell," he told Leonor.

The girl shrugged, still smiling. "Of how he got his scars."

Sansa gave her husband a disapproving look. "A strange tale to tell a child so young," she said. "Were you frightened?"

Leonor paused to think about that. "No," she said. "I was sad."

Sandor's eyes were on Sansa still, and the two stared at each other for a long moment. She knew they were both remembering that night years ago now, when he had stopped her in that field to tell her about his scars, and his threat afterwards…

"Well, how about a happy story then?" Sansa suggested, glancing her daughter's way.

Leonor sat up straight. "The Night of the Blackwater," she said immediately, "when Father first rescued you from King's Landing."

"A brave feat," rasped Sandor approvingly.

"And not a very happy one," Sansa added.

"It is so happy," said Leonor. "It's the very beginning of how you fell in love."

"Yes," Sansa agreed, smiling slightly and looking to her husband once more, "I suppose it is. That's the story you wish to hear, then?"

"Please!"

So Sansa began from the very beginning, warmth slowly filling her heart at the glee upon her daughter's sweet face. And, for the first time in his entire life, Sandor Clegane sat and listened while his wife told his story.


	4. On Kissing

The forest was alive at the height of autumn. Squirrels chattered constantly, while the birds sang their merriment for the afternoon sun. Everywhere trees had scattered their golden leaves across the forest floor. The sky was cloudless and the air crisp, and it smelled of burning wood fires. Sansa inhaled deeply and sighed; she loved this season. _How is winter coming already? _she wondered, a little sadly. Time passed far too quickly for her liking. It was stunning to imagine that her firstborn was already ripe for betrothal.

"There's one thing I've never quite understood, Mother," Leonor said then, tugging Sansa away from her thoughts. The two were wandering together through the shallow of the woods, arm in arm as they always did. They took these walks daily, the two of them, especially now that the Clegane boys had outgrown their mother's stories and preferred to spend most of their time in the yard. Sansa knew it would only be a short while before Leonor grew tired of her tales as well.

Guards followed them at a respectable distance, the gentle clink of their armour now-and-again interrupting the secluded stillness of the day. Sansa asked her daughter what it was she did not understand.

"Well," the girl began, "when the outlaws first came upon you and Father, how did you not hear them approach? Were you both asleep?"

Sansa smiled at that. Never had any of her sons asked her this question, instead having always accepted her story as it was—the Little Bird and the Hound alone in the woods, where they were captured by the band of outlaws known as the Brotherhood. _She's old enough to hear the truth now, _she supposed after a moment's deliberation. "We weren't asleep," she told Leonor. "When they found us, we were kissing each other."

The girl's cheeks suddenly went pink with an impossibly pretty blush, and she tore her gaze from her mother's. "Oh," was all she said.

"_Very _unladylike of me," Sansa offered, sensing her daughter's deep embarrassment. "I know."

Leonor frowned thoughtfully, and as she did so, Sansa could not help but laugh. "What's so funny?" the girl asked, her frown deepening.

"When you make that face," Sansa said, "I can't help but think of your father. He makes the same one whenever he disagrees with something I've said."

"Well," said Leonor carefully, "he _was _your knight, so I don't think it was that unladylike of you."

Sansa smiled slightly. She, of course, knew the _real_ truth of it. Even after so many years she had yet to get over the guilt of that kiss, one which had meant something far more to Sandor Clegane than it had to her. Whenever she thought of it now—which wasn't often—all she could see was the flash of hurt upon his face the moment he learned that terrible truth. _"I was glad to finally be rid of you!" _The memory was dimmer than candlelight in the sun, yet somehow those angry words remained, thundering like new in her ears, echoing there like a racing pulse.

"Yes, I think it _is_ fine," Leonor concluded confidently. "After all, it was with Father, and you two wed each other in the end."

"Well," Sansa mused, "that may be so, but you should know this as well: Sometimes a kiss is not as simple as it would seem."

The girl blushed again, frowning and looking confused, but speaking no more about it.

They walked together in slow silence for a ways after that, enjoying both the quiet of the day and the time away from the castle. It had been lonely inside those walls over the past fortnight, what with her husband having ridden to Winterfell, where he'd been invited to join the king in the season's last hunt. He had decided to take the younger Sandor with him as well, a move which had greatly pleased Sansa. "Boy's got the ears of a wolf," Sandor Clegane had reasoned, in an attempt to downplay her joy. "The eyes, too. He always knows just where the game is, same as that brother of yours." Sansa still enjoyed a secret smile at that.

Mother and daughter continued to walk along in contented silence, a silence only broken when an owl suddenly hooted above them. It was a rare occurrence at this hour, and it echoed through the forest like a bad omen. Sansa's gaze snapped towards the sound, but before she could spot the bird a spell of dizziness swept through her, one so fierce she lost her footing and collapsed to the ground.

"Mother!" Leonor cried.

"Lady Clegane," called one of the guards, and she heard the faint scrape of breastplates as he and his small company rushed to her side.

"It's okay," Sansa told them, her words now as shaky as her limbs. When she sat up, her head spun wildly. She forced herself to smile. "I slipped, that's all. Here, let's sit and rest a while."

The guards helped her to her feet, and then she and Leonor took a seat upon a fallen log nearby. Sansa closed her eyes and tried to will away the weakness that had so suddenly grasped her. She was tired. The night before she had tossed and turned in her bed, dreaming the sorts of dreams best left forgotten. She tried to remember them now, but they were as lost to her as a whisper in the wind.

"Mother?" Leonor's small voice was trembling, making her sound years younger than she was. She placed a gentle hand on Sansa's arm and held it there, concerned. "What happened?"

"I'm tired," Sansa said, trying another smile. "Nothing more."

The girl continued to watch her, her pretty face creased with worry. "You look pale," she said. "We should return home, to Maester Arnell."

"It's but for a lack of sleep," Sansa assured her. "That's all. Now, hush, you needn't be so frightened."

Leonor continued to look unsure and frowned warily, but she didn't say anything else. Sansa was glad for the brief respite in conversation, and closed her eyes once again, softly sighing. Lately, she found, her limbs were often light with air. _I want Sandor, _she thought to herself then, feeling afraid. _I want my husband. _Were he at her side, she knew she'd not tremble so, for he had always eased her fears, he had always kept her safe. _He would never let anything happen to me._

"You are right," she said suddenly, opening her eyes and looking at Leonor, "we should go home. I would like to lay down in my bed." She allowed two of the guards to help her to her feet, and then gratefully took the arms they offered her.

"Are you certain you're all right, my lady?" one of them asked.

"I can bring a horse for you, should you wish it."

"That isn't necessary," Sansa said. "The walk isn't so far."

And while it _wasn't _so far, the journey back to the castle felt as though it would never end. Although her head had cleared, the quiver in her limbs did not. Just when she began to wish she had accepted the offer of a horse, she heard the clink of crashing steel ringing out from the yard. Tired relief poured through her at the familiar sounds.

When they stepped through the gates and into the yard, she paused for a breath, and watched young Ned duelling with Brandon, the boy looking stunningly small as he fought his older brother. _Small, true, yet so quick! Sandor is right to boast about the boy. _Sansa stood astonished as she watched her youngest son effortlessly parry a heavy attack. _He moves as his father once did. _It made her long for her husband again, for the comfort of his strong embrace.

Sansa was escorted to her rooms, where her handmaidens helped her strip down and then eased her into bed. Maester Arnell came to her shortly thereafter.

"My lady," he said. "Alyn told me what happened."

"It's for a lack of sleep," she assured the maester. "A fever, perhaps. Nothing more."

Arnell gently touched her face with his soft hands. "Aye," he muttered to himself. "A fever. You _do _look pale. Some rest should help, my lady. I will return shortly."

As he made to exit the room, Sansa spoke up. "When will my husband be returning home?"

The maester paused in the doorway. "A few days yet, perhaps more." He smiled slightly. "You'll feel better by then, my lady."

Sansa returned his smile, and then she soon fell asleep.

A few days passed, and while her dizziness was gone, the weakness in her bones stayed. Sansa spent much of this time with Leonor, the two chatting happily in front of a burning hearth as they did their needlework. In the mornings Sansa went down to the yard, soaking in the sun's dwindling warmth, and watched her two boys practise. Many onlookers stopped what they were doing to watch Ned duel, she quickly realised. The boy fought as though he were born with a blade, and whenever he lost it was graciously, and only to opponents much older than he. "There'll be no finer swordsman in the realm," Sandor had once said to her, his ruined mouth twitching with unhidden pride. "He's got a rare gift, that one."

It was pouring rain the day her husband finally returned. Sansa was sitting in her chambers with Leonor, the two quietly sewing, content for the moment to allow the falling rain to do the talking for them. When the room's heavy oaken door creaked open, they both looked up at the sound.

"Father!" said Leonor happily, turning from her spot on his armchair to show him the woollen dress she was stitching. "Look. It will help to keep me warm this winter."

Sandor Clegane glanced at it. "Would that I had something so warm today," he grumbled, turning his attention to his wife, his mouth giving a twitch. He looked so cold standing there, she thought, his wet hair matted down in a dripping, stringy mess. "Six bloody hours we rode in that," he told her, gesturing lazily towards the outside. He paused to sniff at his arm. "Gods, I stink of shit and hay. Servants are preparing me a bath."

"Leonor, perhaps you should get ready for bed," Sansa suggested, quickly giving her husband a look for his language. As the girl stood to leave, two servants entered the room with the large bathtub specially crafted to accommodate Sandor's size.

Leonor stopped in the door's arched threshold. "Is it true, Father?" she asked curiously. "Were you really nervous when you and Mother kissed for the first time?"

He stiffened. "What's this?"

"_Leonor_," Sansa said sharply, not failing to notice as the two women carrying the tub exchanged an amused look.

The girl frowned. "You said…" she began, before deciding against it and trailing off. She grudgingly turned to take her leave, and soon her dejected footsteps faded down the tower stairs, followed by those of the two servants. Once a safe distance away, the women could be overheard softly sniggering.

"What nonsense are you telling her now?" Sandor rasped, shooting an angry look towards the chamber door and the echo of laughter in the stairs.

"She asked me some details of our first kiss tonight," Sansa said, chewing her lip and remembering all that she had told her daughter. "I may have mentioned how nervous you were. Perhaps that was unwise."

"Aye," he agreed, "especially as I wasn't nervous."

"Oh?" Sansa smiled. "You weren't?"

Her teasing was met with a scoff. "Nervous," he grumbled to himself, shaking his head. He unclasped the buckles on his brown leather jerkin and then loosened his belt, tossing the garment onto a corner chair. The sleeves of his tunic were darkened from the damp, and they clung tight to his muscled arms. His boots were dirtied with mud, and he sat down to take them off, his mouth twitching distractedly as servants began filtering into the room with pail after pail of warm water for his bath.

Once they were finally alone, Sandor stripped off the rest of his clothes and slid into the tub. "Gods, that's good," he rasped, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

As Sansa gently sponged his back and washed his hair, he told her about his time in Winterfell. "We saw direwolf tracks," he said. "And not so far from the castle walls. They were different ones than those belonging to that beast of your brother's." He then went on to tell her about the great stag his namesake had hunted down and then graciously gifted to the king. "Ah, but it's good to be home. What did I miss?"

Sansa wondered if she should mention her dizzy spell in the forest. She had already asked Maester Arnell and the guards not to say anything to Sandor about the incident. _It will only cause him worry,_ she eventually decided, _and he has enough of that already_. "I've been watching Ned and Brandon in the yard," she told him. "You were right, Ned is superb with a sword."

"He'll be winning tournies for years to come," he rasped proudly. Sandor then took her hand in his own and placed it upon his chest. She smiled at him, and began slowly rubbing her palm across the dark hairs there. After so many years he was still just as strong and powerful as he had ever been in King's Landing. The deep scars on his face glistened clean and new from his bath.

"I don't like it when you go away," she said softly. "It's lonely when you're gone."

"Aye. Would that you were with me in Winterfell." He drew her into a kiss then, one that was long and languid and wet, gradually building in its need. Sansa slowly dipped her arm into the cooling bathwater, and he softly grumbled his approval when her hand found his desire. Mouth twitching, he toweled himself dry as Sansa slipped out of her gown. And then in their featherbed he loved her in his familiar way, watching when the pleasure exploded within her, and then sneering with elation as his own release quickly followed.

Afterwards Sansa lay with her ear upon his chest, listening as the strong, steady beat of his heart gradually slowed to a relaxed rhythm, her head rising and falling with each long breath he took. The weakness that had filled her over the past few days seemed to flutter away bit by little bit then. "So you truly weren't nervous?" she said after a while, the question hardly louder than a whisper.

He did not answer her right away. When he did, it was only with a gentle grumble and an even gentler squeeze, and nothing more.

Sansa smiled to herself, glad to be back in the safety of his arms.


End file.
